Playing Games
by gopadfoot
Summary: Sherlock is acting very out of character, and Mycroft, as always, is concerned. But this time, is the concern going both ways?


Mycroft Holmes was worried about his little brother.

It wasn't drug use this time. In fact, Mycroft had made sure to check and recheck his brother's physical appearance both in person and on the CCTV cameras, and didn't notice any of the tells. (He didn't dare initiate a drugs bust, not when there was no evidence pointing in that direction.) Ironically, it would almost have been a relief if he did, for that would explain Sherlock's recent bizarre behavior. Knowing the source would have meant knowing how to deal with it.

Mycroft hated being in the dark. Being in the dark about something regarding his brother's wellbeing was even worse. Being in the dark about something regarding his brother's wellbeing, which was greatly affecting his brother's behavior, was akin to having been told that umbrellas had ceased to exist, and his fleet of cars had been painted fuchsia. In other words, unacceptable.

Was it a game that Sherlock was playing? An elaborate setup for a case? Or just another way to torment his older brother, by confusing the hell out of him?

It had all begun while they were standing in the flat, planning to outrun the imminent explosion. Mycroft had tried to ease the tension a bit, (as well as distract himself from his fea- no, he didn't have fears, maybe just a bit of _concern_ ) and had made a remark about his acting role as Lady Bracknell.

"You were great," Sherlock said quietly. The little rascal wasn't making eye contact. In fact, he was concentrating his gaze on the wall, a big tell that he was fibbing. That made Mycroft grin. His little brother could fool a lot of people, himself included, but Mycroft could always tell when he said a straight lie.

"You really think so?" he had asked in amusement.

"Yes, I really do," Sherlock said, his attempt at deceit even more obvious this time. Mycroft felt the bittersweet taste of cautious hope on his tongue. This must be his brother's way of saying goodbye, to show he still meant something to him.

"Well, that's good to know," he whispered back. "I had always wondered." He wondered if Sherlock realized that it wasn't Lady Bracknell he was talking about.

The rest of that day had been horrific, to say the least, but his little brother had acted like he had expected him to, for the most part. Charging forward bravely to confront his sister. Keeping his head under crisis, and having a meltdown when it got too much. Accepting John's encouragement, and marching on.

The little jabs at Mycroft, his intelligence, and then basically ignoring him unless he needed Mycroft's help, were somehow comforting in their familiarity. The little business with the gun, however, had thrown them both off course a bit. Upon consideration, Mycroft should have expected it. Sherlock was never, and could never be, a murderer. Besides, Sherlock knew that his little stunt with pointing the gun at himself would change the game plan. Sherlock had finally figured out that only he, himself, was the game's objective. Mycroft didn't fool himself for a moment by thinking that it was fraternal sentiment that made Sherlock stay his hand from pulling the trigger.

As expected, he didn't hear from his brother after he was rescued that night. It was DI Lestrade who phoned him to fill him in on the experiences of his brother and the doctor. What was unexpected was the DI showing up in person while he was kept in the hospital for observation, after going into shock.

Lestrade had asked him if there was anything he could do for him. Mycroft had smelled a rat. The detective and himself had a longstanding history of working together to help Sherlock, but were by no means considered friends. He could figure who had sent him, but could not ascertain the motive.

"Tell my brother, Lestrade, that if he wants to spy on me, he should find more subtle ways to accomplish that," he said blandly.

The other man shifted uncomfortably. "Actually, Mr. Holmes, Sherlock asked me to make sure you're looked after," he said defensively.

"Did he?" Mycroft's gaze was sharp, despite his state. There had to be more to this.

"Yes." The reply was confident.

"And what else did he say?" the Iceman pushed relentlessly.

"Look, I'm just fulfilling his request. I can go if you like," the DI was getting annoyed.

"Please don't take offense," Mycroft flashed his politician smile. "I'm just surprised by my little brother's unusual concern. You understand I'm sure."

"Yeah, I do. To quote him, he said, regarding yourself, 'make sure he's looked after, he's not as strong as he thinks.' I think he's grown up quite a bit."

Mycroft nodded in agreement, and then let the detective know he was perfectly fine before he dismissed him. He now understood Sherlock's intention to have been some sort of smug retaliation, for all the times Mycroft had sent Lestrade to check up on his brother. That reassured him that his little brother was still acting in character. Sherlock would be alright.

However, there had been several more incidents, getting progressively more peculiar. There was the way he defended Mycroft when their mother was berating him, saying that Mycroft did his best. That actually only brought more insults from his mother, so Mycroft reasoned that this had been Sherlock's intention all along. Or perhaps he was pretending to be a reasonable adult in front of their parents, in order to earn accolades.

Life went on. On the surface, everything seemed to be in order, yet adding everything together gave him a niggling feeling that there was something more going on. There was the day he received a phone call from Sherlock, which started with the ominous, "Hello, brother dear!"

"What have you done now?" Mycroft sighed tiredly.

"Why would you think I did something?" Sherlock asked in affront. Mycroft was tired of playing along.

"I'm busy now. Just tell me what you need."

There was a small pause. "I just wanted to see how you're doing," Sherlock said quietly.

"Of course," Mycroft drawled sarcastically. "If there's nothing else?"

Instead of getting to the point, Sherlock simply said "no," and then put down the phone. The older brother, who had had a hard day and had enough headache to prove it, didn't ponder the conversation for long.

When he got another call, and then another, he switched gears from mild concern to full-blown alarm. There were some calls in which Sherlock said he just wanted to 'touch base,' and others in which he claimed to want to 'hear your voice.' There was even one in which the younger brother suggested that Mycroft come over to play some games. That had alarmed Mycroft to no end.

"Is John alright?" he queried.

"Yes, of course. He's right here actually, visiting with Rosie." So this wasn't a case of extreme boredom or loneliness, which would be the only reason Mycroft could think of for this invitation. Even that one time they had played Operation, the older brother had come over of his own volition, not by invitation.

"I do prefer to stay clear of your flat, as I imagine certain individuals would find my presence rather loathsome," Mycroft told him flatly.

"Oh," was the soft response. "I didn't..." he trailed off, and the older brother would never know what he intended to say. The conversation was quickly concluded.

The next night, Sherlock came over to Mycroft's residence. _And rang his bell._ Mycroft was flabbergasted and more concerned than ever.

That is, until he saw what Sherlock had brought with him. An assortment of board games. And Black Forest gateau, Mycroft's favorite. Mycroft wasn't even on a diet at present.

Mycroft dragged his brother in, and all but pushed him down into a chair. Looming over him, he spoke in icy, clipped tones. "Either you tell me what game you're playing, or I will consider serious intervention."

Sherlock turned to face his brother, his countenance portraying abject hurt and confusion. "You think this is all a game?!"

"What else would I think?" Mycroft's tone turned softer, and his concern leaked through. "Sherlock, you're just not acting yourself. You recently underwent major trauma, in addition to confronting your past demons. It's alright if you need help. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to assist you. Please, even if you don't want me to interfere, let someone else help you."

"I'm not out of my mind, Mycroft," Sherlock insisted, meeting his brother's anxious gaze.

The older man sat down heavily. "Then would you please explain? Because this," he pointed to the baggage his brother had brought, "this isn't normal. This isn't you."

The younger man stared at his hands for a long minute. When he spoke up, his voice was very soft, yet strong with conviction. "When we faced the patience grenade, it was a first for me. It was the first time in my life that I faced the very real prospect of losing you."

He looked his brother directly in the eye as he continued, and Mycroft realized that there was no chance he didn't mean what he said.

"Then when you tried to get me to shoot you. There was no way for me to rationalize that as just another ploy to control me. And I could have very easily lost you then, too. Forever."

Mycroft opened his mouth, but quickly closed it when he realized that, for once, he didn't have anything to say.

"I realized, suddenly, that I very much didn't want to."

Mycroft finally found something to say.

"But you didn't, in the end. So why all _this_?"

"There's more than one way of losing someone, brother mine."

That was all Mycroft needed to understand. His little brother had been afraid that he had finally pushed his brother too far. "I promised you," he said sternly. "And I won't renege on that promise. I was there for you before, and I will _always_ be there for you. You shouldn't be concerned that it could ever be otherwise."

Unsaid, but not unheard, were the words: _no matter what has happened between us._

Sherlock gave a little smile, which then turned into a smirk. "You've gained weight, brother mine. Your buttons are practically popping off!"

Mycroft felt a wave of relief. Sherlock's mocking comments reassured him that his brother was definitely alright. In an odd way, he had missed the familiarity of his barbs.

"Why are you still here?" he shot back. "Don't you have some chasing to do over the rooftops of London?"

"Nah, the criminals are all on holiday. Thought I'd use the time to visit my dearest brother, and see just how much he's been slipping. Do you think you can still beat me at Stratego?"

Mycroft scoffed. "Bring it on, brother mine, bring it on."


End file.
